Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

Two SU-24 Strike fighters from the remains of the Belorusian Air Force landed at the airport and joined the ragtag army. The planes were low on armament and would need to leapfrog between landing strips, but were welcome nonetheless.

At Rivne a mob of primitive Ghouls numbering nearly 500 charged the convoy’s flank. A contingent of Irish infantrymen and Italian cavalry bore the brunt of the assault and suffered a couple hundred casualties. Many of the injured were left behind under the care of volunteers so as to not slow the march.

After that battle Gaston’s intelligence unit traced the attack route of the Ghouls to an abandoned automotive manufacturing factory where he found hundreds of blobs of green goo.

If Trevor were to be believed the Ghouls had traveled through space and time from as far away as Cincinnati, Ohio; from the time when Trevor’s Empire seemed unstoppable in its expanse Voggoth, it seemed, scrambled to blunt the European advance.

And now came Zhytomyr where a couple hundred Mutants-the humanoids with big ugly mouths, beady eyes, and hover-bikes-manned barricades in the ruined city.

The easy part of the maneuver ended. Armand’s attention refocused on the mission. He radioed, “Tighten things up, everyone. Heavy weapons teams hurry to your mark and dismount. The rest of you with me to keep these bastards busy.”

The motorcycle cavalry gained speed as they swung in unison to the west again, riding fast for the destroyed city. Heaps of bricks and collapsing walls remained where buildings once stood-telephone poles lay splintered and toppled-roads were pot-marked with craters and lined with rusted Avtovaz sedans-bones here and there from various species-these were the sights of Zhytomyr.

An artillery shell burst in the blue afternoon sky in a puff of black and gray. Then another. The rat-tat-tat of assault weapons echoed over the ruins answered by the deep booms of alien flintlocks.

The cavalry spread into a skirmish line. Their approach did not go unnoticed.

A line of Mutants onboard hover bikes raced from the shadows of a shattered warehouse and rode to intercept in numbers nearly equal Armand’s troop. The aliens seemed a warped reflection of the human cavalry: both wore leather, although the Mutants’ gear appeared harder and bulky. Both brandished weapons: maces, chains, and clumsy pistols for the aliens; assault rifles and swords for the humans.

The forces raced toward one another across the fields east of the destroyed city, weaving and swerving to avoid piles of burned bodies and the weed-infested fuselage of a crashed passenger airliner.

Armand lowered his head as if he might be a human battering ram.

The two formations of riders smashed into one another. Rifles shot Mutants from hover-bikes. Maces smashed helmets. Collisions sent rides of both flavors into death spirals.

The cavalry pushed through.

While the remaining Mutant bikers swept around to make another pass, Armand gazed at the battle ahead. He saw hordes of the aliens huddled around barricades of tires and steel beams trading fire with soldiers. He saw 15-foot tall dinosaurs shooting streams of flame from barrels seemingly screwed into their necks with Mutants riding in saddles high on the creatures’ shoulders.

He saw what Trevor saw: an obstacle to be smashed and cast aside so that the mission could be complete. Armand saw purpose.

“Heavy teams, dismount and cut these bastards down. The rest of you, follow me!”

Night fell over Zhytomyr. The city that had been broken and torched at the outset of Armageddon burned yet again, although it surprised Alexander to find any kindling remaining among the rubble.

Overhead, a legion of peaceful stars belied the confusion below. The army marched forward, kicking up clouds that joined the smoke of a battle won to create a foggy ceiling nearly blocking any view of those heavens. The entire place smelled dusty, like an old closet opened for the first time in years.

Alexander walked hastily away from a group of officers in eclectic clothes who gathered beneath one of the few remaining ceilings in town. He left behind their campfire that cast a yellow glow over the chipped plaster of what had once been a small cafe.

The European leader carried what he always carried: his clipboard and a shoulder’s worth of worries.

The growl of truck motors, the drum of marching boots, the whirr of an unseen helicopter, and the occasional crack of distant gunfire played as background music to Alexander’s thoughts. Unhappy thoughts at that.

They had finally punched through the Mutant blockade just before nightfall, but his army had grown into a nearly unmanageable snake. The rear most elements-if they could even be identified-were just passing through Rivne, nearly 100 miles behind. Additional units spread to the north and south; a few completely disappeared due either to misdirection or attack.

And they kept coming. Volunteers poured in with the latest being dozens of Russian partisans traveling in horses and carts. Their knowledge of the lands to come would prove valuable but Alexander could no longer be sure he possessed an accurate roster.

That reminded him. Alexander erased the listing for “Romanian armored car group”. Their pair of light military vehicles failed to start after a rest stop that morning. A few of their number jumped in with the Polish mobile hospital, the rest remained with their vehicles hoping to effect repairs. In any case, they no longer deserved a listing in that all-important roster.

A fuel truck kicked a wooden plank from the road which rattled into the remains of a concrete divider wall a dozen feet from Alexander. The noise drew his eyes away from the clipboard and to the column of trucks. He wanted to believe the fuel trucks carried topped-off tanks, but he knew differently.

Fuel. Gasoline.

Reserves from stockpiles in eastern Germany and Romanian refineries alleviated the petrol problem for a few days, but even the tanker trucks needed gasoline to keep moving. He could not fathom how they would make it all the way to the Urals without a significant influx of petroleum.

On top of that, fuel for the thousands of horses and mules also grew scarce. He hoped the fertile grasslands of Ukraine would provide some relief, but only time would tell.

Fuel for the soldiers-the human soldiers-was less of a problem than the other two kinds. Word spread of the great march east. Thousands of volunteers continued to join and those settlements who could not spare fighters sent foodstuffs: canned goods over a decade old, recently harvested grains, smoked meats from game hunts, and bins of seafood all found their way to the army. While the diet lacked consistency, at least the marchers ate.

Another reminder.

Alexander penciled a question mark alongside “5 ^ th Highlander Brigade.” While those Scotsmen remained in the march, a bout of dysentery kept a fair number of their rank confined to a few select-and isolated-wagons. Medicine, for the Scotts as well as everyone else, remained a rare commodity. Most of the supply wagons that did not carry ammunition or fuel stayed at the rear where they were far from those in need and subject to guerrilla attack, which increased in frequency each day.

Alexander stopped walking and gently banged the clipboard off his head in a sign of frustration. At the same time, a half-track loaded with Albanians singing a marching song and swigging bottles of scavenged wine drove by and covered him in a layer of dust.

“What’s wrong, Father? Did we not win the battle?”

Jorgie’s observation lacked his usual enthusiasm for the marching armies of humanity. Perhaps the fast pace had finally taken its toll. Perhaps he did not sleep well in the back of a van. Perhaps the strange surroundings-a world away from home-made him uncomfortable.